


in stitches

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:23:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4083064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> "I felt like I needed him to be complete." </i> - Fernando Torres</p>
            </blockquote>





	in stitches

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: i'm gernando trash i guess :/ [just like nando.](http://mesutings.tumblr.com/post/119872419599/steven-gerrard-fernando-torres-on-steven)

Fernando cuts his thumb one day on the door jamb in the locker room. It's suddenly red, bleeding everywhere, and he swears and holds it to his mouth. He swallows back against the taste of iron, gritting his teeth, and looks at the cut. It looks like a gaping fish mouth, salmon colored flap of skin welling up with blood again.

He runs in to Steven on the way out. Steven looks at him, forehead furrowed, and says, “What happened?” Fernando shrugs, takes away his hand from his mouth to say, “I cut it. The blood- it won't stop.”

Steven's face does a funny little twitch like he's halfway between concerned and amused, and takes a hold of Fernando's hand.

He frowns at it for a bit, turning Fernando's thumb to the light. “We should get you patched up.”

“I just need a-” Fernando says, half heartedly. He waves a hand, hoping the word would come to him.

“A plaster?” Stevie says, smiling. “I have one in the car then.”

Fernando follows him out, sheepish.

 

-

 

“Here.” Steven says, and digs one out of the compartment in the center console. Fernando sticks it on, careful, peeling the wrapper with his mouth.

“Want to come around for lunch? Alex left some stuff in the fridge before she left for London.” Steven asks, starting the car.

Fernando shrugs in agreement. “Sure. Why is Alex in London?”

“Some modeling thing.” Steven says, making a vague gesture while looking at the road.

It wasn't a long drive to Steven's house, but it was long enough to exhaust their conversation. Fernando picks at the edge of his seat, watching the road flash by outside his window. It was starting to rain, soft patters against the side of the car but he knows already that it was going to get heavier. It's been barely 5 months since he's gotten here, and he knows it's just how England is, constant drizzling. Fernando sighs and leans against the back of the seat.

Steven looks at him quickly, mouth curved up. “How're you settling in?”

“It's. Hard. The things on the pitch- that's easy-” He earns another smile from Steven at this, “But learning english? Hard. Also it rains all the time. I'm always cold. And I miss Madrid.” Once he starts complaining it's hard to stop, and Steven's chuckling at him. Fernando flushes, knowing he sounded like a child, whinging about things like the weather when they have real worries like Chelsea coming up, and United after that.

“Don't worry. Scoring goals'll warm you up.” Steven says, pulling in to his drive. He turns his head to smile at Fernando again, fleeting. Steven always seems to be smiling at him, like he wasn't aware he was doing it, and Fernando wanted to ask him why. Maybe he's only thinking of the goals to be scored in the next matches. Fernando looks at Steven's hand on the gearshift and tries to ignore the way his heart drops at the thought, and the rain falls harder, a genuine downpour.

 

 

-

 

 

They run in to the house and it's three steps away but they still end up soaked, Fernando running with his training bag raised over his head and Steven with his shoulders hunched.

Steven's laughing hard when they stumble in to the door, but takes a look at Fernando shivering, mouth twisted wryly in misery, and his face softens.

“I'll get you something of mine to wear.” He says, tosses Fernando a towel from the rack. Fernando accepts, grateful.

He comes back with a training shirt. “Probably be a bit tight on you, but here-” Fernando stops toweling his hair dry and says, “Thanks.”

“Jesus.” Steven says, grabbing his hand. “You're bleeding again.” 

Fernando blinks and looks down and it's true, he must have cut it deeper than he realized. Steven's fingers were very warm on his hand, peeling away the sodden bandaid. Fernando thinks for a wild moment that Steven was about to put his mouth on it, and the image burns straight through his heart. It must be showing on his face. It must be.

He chances a glance up and Steven's looking at him, strange. Fernando leans in, almost helplessly, and Steven's hands come up to his face. He's saying, “Nando-” very softly, like he wasn't aware he was doing it, his hands on either side of Fernando's face, and Fernando opens his mouth. Steven tugs him in very close, his hands twisted harshly in Fernando's shirt. Fernando's whole weight was on him, their cheeks pressing against each other, Steven's mouth just an inch away from his own. Fernando keeps his eyes shut.

Steven lets out a very ragged breath, and Fernando feels it against his lips. He wants to stay like this, even if it's just this. Steven pushes him away. Fernando staggers a little, recovers his balance. They back away from each other, and then Steven meets his eyes, solemn. They look at each other from the newly regained distance, and Steven says, “I can't.”

Fernando doesn't speak.

“This doesn't change anything.” Steven says. Fernando nods, and wonders how anyone can live with this, like finding a locked room in your own heart, inaccessible. He looks at the smear of blood his hand left on the white counter behind Steven.

“Life doesn't work like that.” Steven smiles, eyes sad. “You don't get everything you want.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

But Steven was wrong on this account. By rights it shouldn't be- _No one ever gets everything they want-_ but it's football, and so-

 

They're playing a derby that day, and everything is too bright on the pitch, their jerseys are clashing; red and blue, garish like fresh bruises. The pitch is neon green in the sunlight, he's flicking his hair back from his face because it's gotten too long and the sweat's dripping in to his eyes. His legs are aching, his ankles a dull and throbbing reminder of last match's heavy tackles, and Fernando feels like he's barely held together by painkillers and sports tape, a scarecrow person, limbs too long to coordinate. Steven smiles at him as he runs by, quick sideways glance. Fernando's scored once already, and now he's running up the pitch again, his heart beating red, red, red against his ribcage, so much he thinks it would show through even in Liverpool's home kit, and Steven passes him a long ball from the right. He traps it with a touch and flicks it in the direction of the net. He doesn't need to look- he knows it goes in from the roar of the crowd- there's only a rushing wave of feeling, no longer an ache of a cavity in his heart. He reels away and holds his arms out to the crowd, breathing hard, his breathes coming up from his lungs and in to his throat like fire. Steven's behind him, laughing and holding on to him, arms around his chest and head buried against his shoulder _\- (And later Steven would hesitate and pull him aside and ask him, Come back to mine? And Fernando would nod and it would be this, always, he'd burn and bleed for it, he'd give up both his thumbs)_ \- But right then Dirk's running up to him, breathless and laughing, wraps an arm around his waist and says, “Fernando- Fernando listen-” He looks up at the stands around him, at the Kop. For a moment he doesn't understand, and then the stadium sound clears like a wave lifting and he hears,  _Torres, Torres,_ and they're singing a song. They're singing a song for him. Fernando looks back for Steven, and Steven's saying something to him, his accent twice as indecipherable in the excitement, but Fernando still says “I know.”, and he does, he does. 

 

 

They're playing a charity match that day, and it's strange because everything feels like it's been turned upside down. Terry's laughing with Jamie and Henry's talking to Luis Garcia, and Steven's smiling in the middle of it all. Their jerseys are black and white, and the grass is springy under his feet and it's a beautiful day, mellow, blue skies for miles, the crowd raucous about them. He keeps his head down when he runs on the pitch, and their chatter sounds like a seashell held to his ear, remote, as if he's under a bell jar, small and insignificant as an ant crawling in the grass. They're singing, probably, because this is Anfield and they sing like they're praying at an alter, and the atmosphere is redolent of a hundred matches he's played in before. He tastes nostalgia like a heavy metal coating his tongue, like blood in his mouth. He runs with the ball- a pass from Luis- he's trying to duck past Terry but the man knew him too well, and Terry grins at him as he flicks the ball away. Fernando smiles back at him and shrugs, and Steven says, “Fernando! Nando!” And he's gesturing at the stands, so Fernando tips his head to listen. The sound clears, a little like when his ears finally pop after an airplane ride, and the moment stretches out like a string, light and taunt- ( _And later Steven will pull him aside and kiss his temple and where his hair parts, always imperfectly, that one flop that never stays in place, and it will feel like forgiveness, like waking up from a bad dream or finding all his worst mistakes undone)-_ Then it finally registers- they're singing, _Torres, Torres,_ they're singing his song again. The sound clears like a glass breaking, and the air rushes back in to his lungs, and he looks around for Steven again and Steven opens his mouth to say something but he doesn't, only smiles at him, but Fernando thinks he knows anyway. 

And he does, he does. 

 


End file.
